


The Hunters Gift

by unicyclehippo



Series: In The Hands of Gods [2]
Category: The 100 (TV), Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Clarke is a princess, F/F, Knight AU, Tortall AU, its fun give it a whirl, knights and magic, lexa is a page, medieval fantasy type thing, pretty heavily follows the tamora pierce novel layouts for this kind of thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 00:11:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16294622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicyclehippo/pseuds/unicyclehippo
Summary: After the disastrous events of the summer camp, Lord Padraig haMinch has forbidden Lexa – Alexandra, the sole heir to the Gold Noble House of Haryse – from returning to her training as a page without her father’s permission. Having spent the season with her protector and dear friend Captain Gustus Bruin at her side, Lexa has struggled to control and contain the power she finds herself with. Now, Lexa has finally returned to Corus…without her father’s permission. Struggling with duty and destiny, Lexa will face many decisions and dangers in the next three years of her training with family and friends at her side, and enemies that seem to lurk behind every corner.And beyond Lexa’s awareness, a rumour travels across the realm of Tortall. Peace. A new King has claimed the seat of the Bloody Throne in Scanra and a treaty has been carried across the war-line into Tortall.





	The Hunters Gift

 

 _Summer to Winters Start_  
in the 35th year of the reign of  
Jonathan IV and Thayet, his Queen

_474H.E. (Human Era)_

The summer harvest festival closes with a tournament.

Ribbons of reds and golds and greens twine over every exposed post atop houses and vendors’ stalls, fluttering in the breeze—or, since a breeze comes so rarely in the stinking hot city, they flutter when the children run underneath them and tug and pull at the ribbons, shrieking their delight. The festival is a monstrous, sprawling thing that had eaten up the open fields in only a few short hours. Stalls and carts and entirely new buildings had been raised in the small hours of that first morning and now, after nearly a week, there is hardly an inch left in the city that stands free of the clamour.

Stalls filled with produce line the main thoroughfare. What is normally wide enough for four carts to trundle easily side-by-side has now become stoppered up by the crush of stalls and shoppers and the Players that walk the streets. Some dance in glittering costumes and painted faces, others walking high above the common folk on stilts, and yet others still can be seen juggling fire and balls of light and live birds that fly squawking overhead. Carts piled high with produce—crisp apples and plump tomatoes begging to be smashed and diced and crushed into sweet sauces and strews—creak along next to folk carrying trays of bread, loaves and loaves of them, the browned outsides splitting open with that perfect crunch to reveal the soft insides, the scent of fresh-baked bread pulling gawkers in droves. Jams and berries and calls of ‘Fish! Direct from Caynn! None fresher! Fish!’ and Yamani hawkers passing out green sheets of salted seaweed and rices and intricately sliced fish, drawing many to their stalls. Paper lanterns with beautiful designs are cut and prepared by the hundred. Toys are desperately bought for sobbing children, puppets dangled enticingly on colourful strings, and more than a few folk haggle viciously over the price of a rat-catcher to be, their children looking on with hopeful eyes at their soon-to-be pets.

Outside the city walls is the main tourney court. Nobles and commoners alike gather here; whispermen and thieves find their place in both circles, slipping between them with ease. The market may be profitable, but it is the tournament that draws them with the lure of new faces and new skills to be bought and sold; impressive feats of strength and skill are desirable for people of all walks of life, and not all of the warriors participating will turn away coin in the name of honour or chivalry.

Laid out on packed dirt within hastily raised fences is a long rectangular court surrounded on three sides by raised seats for the spectators. At the north end of the court are two small rings in the dirt, no more than ten feet wide. All week, any who put up the entry fee can take up a staff to fight—and win. Or lose. At the south end is an archery range with walls and wards to stop a stray arrow from finding a target in the crowd.

The real draw, however, is the centre court. A thirty-foot wide arena sits barren and empty. Opposite this arena, a squat building has been erected. It is well-fortified and a long bench has been set in full view of the area, a long purple cushion running the length of it. Two banners drape from the roof of this building. The first proudly boasts a silver crown and sword over a blue field. The second, smaller and set below the first, shows a tree and three stars–both in grey–set on a green field.

Lord Titus sits back into the recesses of this building. The past year has been kind to him; whatever grip the Sickness had on him has loosened and he has regained some weight and strength. He sits taller in his chair and his clothes finally sit properly rather than draping over too-thin shoulders and buckled twice at the waist. His skin is no longer sallow or stretched tight over his skull and, though he still keeps his head bald, Lord Titus suits the look now. The only sign of distress are the deep lines that worry has dragged between his brows and around his mouth. Brown eyes—clear and focused—scan the crowd. His thin lips barely shift when he speaks.

‘Any sign of her?’

‘None, milord.’

‘Would you go out and check?’

There is no worry to his tone for any eavesdropper to pick up on, but Corin senses it in the way Lord Titus rubs at the heavy gold ring on his left hand. And the fact that the Lord had ridden out all the way to Corus after her.

‘Yes, milord,’ he agrees immediately and steps away from Lord Titus with a small bow barely deeper than a nod.

There is no exit to the building—to prevent anyone from surprising the Haryse guard, or the King’s—so Corin leaves out the open front, dried grass crunching underfoot.

Noise slams into him; the clamour of bells and yells, barking dogs and screaming children, horseshoes clanging on cobblestone, music from what feels every second stall.

There’s no way to tell if the music is good or not.

Corin steps out of the way of a small parade of gaudily dressed Players. He returns their cheerful grins with an uncertain one of his own. Haryse is no stranger to festivals or to visitors but even so…they’ve never hosted the sheer  _number_  of people that had poured—and continue to pour—out from the city. Corin wanders through the market, searching half-heartedly. Not for a small girl— _though not so small anymore_ , he corrects himself, remembering how much Lexa had shot up over her first year away, and how Mara had cried with pride as she stitched and darned and hemmed more clothes to give little Lexa growing room for the next year. Rather, Corin searches for an enormous man standing head and shoulders above the crowd.

After a half hour of searching, Corin stops to buy a roll from one of the bakeries. Intent on scoffing down his treat, Corin takes two steps toward a less busy spot beneath a tree where families have set out blankets.

A large hand clamps down on his shoulder.

‘Little far from home, aren’t ye?’ The large hand turns him so he stands face-to-face—more or less—with Gustus.

Corin’s face nearly splits in two with the force of his grin. ‘Gustus!’ Clasping the man’s hand in his own, Corin shakes firmly. He can’t help but look over the man for any sign of upset, of physical hurt.

Gus’s hair is longer and wilder than ever, beard ever as bushy—though it looks as though he has made a festive attempt this morning and plaited orange and yellow threads into the braids, and carved wooden clasps and tiny brass decorations shaped into suns dangle from their ends. He looks strong; a head and a half taller than Corin, who has never been short, and twice as broad. Corin is happy to see he looks the same as he had when the pair had left Haryse nearly two months earlier: healthy. Unharmed.

‘You look good,’ Gus tells him, finishing his own examination of Corin. He grins, white teeth flashing. ‘Like a young Lord.’

Corin stammers, plucks at his tunic. The material is incredibly fine, and a handsome green that suits his darker skin nicely. ‘I—Lord Titus has me working with him lately,’ he says.

Gus nods. Likely, he had already known that.

‘Where is Titus?’ He follows Corin’s eyes to the tournament arena and the building behind it. ‘Organised the whole festival, I heard. Did’e say why?’

‘No. Have you seen—’ Corin stops. ‘Course you have. Is she safe? Is she…alright?’

Gus’s eyes glint. His face remains impassive—harsh planes of stone buried beneath a wild tangle of beard and brows. Indecipherable. ‘She’s safe.’

‘And alright?’

‘As much as she can be.’

Corin nods. He doesn’t know exactly what had happened to their girl but he knows enough of what it means. Mara had told him about the night terrors, the long days where Lexa hadn’t spoken. The way she had flinched when folk came into the same room as her, or the same orchard.

The screaming.

‘I ‘spect he’ll be wantin’ t’ see me, then? She’s not here with me,’ Gus tells Corin.

They head off together to the pavilion.

‘Do ye enjoy the work?’ Gus asks him after a while. No matter his size, there is no way they can move quickly amongst the densely packed crowd.

Corin considers the question for a moment before he nods. ‘I still get t’ do all the work I like. Building an’ fixin’ things. Get up for the grazing, same as always,’ he grins. After fourteen years of waking early to feed the cattle, he suspects it would take as many years to break him of the habit. ‘Milord has me reading more. Doin’ the figuring. I like it well enough.’

He falls silent then. Ordinarily, he would have told Gus all of it—that he suspects Lord Titus might just be lonely, no matter how much he says he sees potential in Corin—but a feeling of tension persists. He cannot forget that last day in the courtyard of the castle. Gustus and the Lady on one side. Lord Titus on the other.

‘That’s good, lad,’ Gustus says, and he sounds sincere when he says, ‘Titus needs the help an’ I’m glad yer there for him.’

//

By the time they get there, the pavilion is packed with richly-dressed folk. Many of them, Corin sees, aren’t dressed for the occasion at all. It’s summer still but they’re drenched in handsome cloaks and dripping with jewels and cloying fragrances. Corin is relieved that Titus is his lord; he thinks the servants following these gaudy ponies don’t look as happy with their lot. It hadn’t occurred to him to turn away Lord Titus’s offer—he has always been happy, proud even, to help the Haryse house in whatever way he could—but when a man walks past trussed up in lavender nonsense, which looks like it would’ve been hard to get into about five years and several feasts ago, Corin knows that if  _that_  man had asked him to be his house steward, he would have said no. Corin wants no part of the work a  _hapros_  like that would entrust him with.

The servant keeping pace with the  _hapros_ —a young man who pulls off the lavender look  _far_  better—gives Corin a sly, long-suffering look. It is followed by a grin that makes Corin flush.

He smiles nervously back.

Clearing his throat and turning his attention away from the young man, Corin leads Gus around to the front of the pavilion.

A guard – red-faced under his helmet and armour – holds out a gauntleted hand to stop them.

‘No entry.’

Corin blinks. He’s of a height with the man, if not a little taller. Though he doesn’t wear armour or a sword, his shoulders are equally as broad and strong from years of field world.

‘Forgive me,’ he says quietly, the northern burr sounding out of place to his own ears after being surrounded by the strident city accent. His ears feel hot. ‘My name is Corin. I am the house steward to Lord Titus of Haryse. This is Captain Bruin, Captain of the Haryse standing men-at-arms. We would like,’ he swallows, pushes hastily through the rest of his words. ‘We would like to pass and stand with our lord, if you please.’

The guard frowns at him. The fingers of his metalled gauntlets creak as he balls his fist. ‘I said you can’t pass. Step back, or I’ll make you step back.’

‘Lay a hand on that weapon, lad, and ah’ll make it so ye can’t do anything with it again, y’hear?’ Gustus has such a friendly manner about him when he’s threatening violence. It makes Corin’s shoulders loosen and he unknowingly stands a little taller, a little more confidently.

The guard looks between the two of them again. Clears his throat. Without looking away from them, he says, ‘Datis, check with the Lord Padraig, would you?’

‘Yessir!’

The guard to his side clicks his heels smartly and strides inside, returning a moment later with a stocky man, steel-haired and flint-eyed. He looks to be in his late fifties, with crows feet well-creased at the corners of his eyes when he squints against the sun to examine the two of them. A thin-lipped mouth is set into permanently vague disapproval. There is a faint pink scar that stops just shy of cutting into his top lip. His nose is thick and rather resembles an arrowhead—its nostrils flare when the man identifies Gustus and he makes his way over, the long, quick strides showing none of his age or the years of heavy fighting he has been through.

‘Captain,’ Lord Padraig haMinch greets Gus brusquely. ‘Good to see you.’

‘Lord Padraig,’ Gus nods. ‘Corin Eornhald, house steward of Lord Titus.’

Padraig spares Corin a sharp nod. ‘Eornhald. Good to meet you. These two may enter, sergeant,’ Padraig tells the guard who had stopped them and he escorts them inside.

Corin nods to the sergeant. Gustus eyes him darkly as they enter.

It is much cooler within the pavilion than it had been outside. Cooler than it had been before Corin had left, he realises. The effect is brought about by a half-dozen cooling enchantments working to keep a light breeze swirling around the building. It smells like it might be faintly scented with perfume too, Corin thinks, sniffing the air.

‘Jasmin.’

Corin starts, wondering if he had been too obvious with the sniffing. But Padraig isn’t looking at him. Instead, he is standing next to a young woman who examines the room and its occupants with clear interest.

With an angular face and discomfortingly piercing blue eyes, the girl—young woman, in her mid-twenties perhaps—is altogether too sharp to be pretty but it in no way stops her from being immediately fascinating. She wears green riding breeches tucked into well-worn boots and a blouse in so light a shade of blue it is nearly white. Over her outfit is a practical summer coat. One of the pockets is heavy with a rectangular shape Corin can’t make out, and a very functional knife hangs on her hip. Corin finds himself nodding with appreciation at the young woman’s sensible clothes.

‘Jasmin, what are you doing here?’

‘I thought I would try my hand at some of the tourney games,’ the young woman tells him, tugging on a pair of gloves. Lord Padraig’s expression doesn’t change as far as Corin can see but the girl must know him better because she rolls her eyes and tosses her braid back over her shoulder. ‘It’s perfectly  _safe_. I can smell the wards from here.’

‘You can’t smell wards.’

‘You can’t. I can. Besides,’ she adds, eyes flashing with a glee so palpable Corin can feel it needling him even from a distance, ‘I wasn’t asking for permission.’

Rocking up onto the balls of her feet, the girl presses a kiss to Padraig’s cheek and strides out into the arena.

Padraig stares after her for a moment, teeth grinding. Then, ‘Lord Titus is in the private room with His Majesty. You’ll have to wait here.’

Corin blinks. ‘Private room?’

Padraig gestures to the side; Corin catches a glimpse of a wall—a perfectly normal wall with no door at all. Except…now that his attention is drawn to it, he  _can_  see the outline of a door. A moment passes and he finds himself looking at the bench, and a man’s indecorous outfit, and forgetting all about the door.

‘They’ll be out soon enough. Excuse me,’ he says rather brusquely, and he follows the same path the girl—Jasmin—had taken only moments earlier.

* * *

In what feels like the last bastion of peace in the city—an old and overgrown garden squashed between Temple and Hilltop Districts—an anxious voice splinters the silence.

‘Lady? Lady,  _please,_  get back here!’

One hand slaps onto the top of the high wall that skirts the garden. Then another. A head appears next, its face crumpled in determination. All of this is followed very quickly by a pair of shoulders and then the rest of the girl’s body as she ignores her keeper and swings over the top of the wall. She rolls awkwardly over it to the other side so she is dangling by her fingertips. Craning her neck to gauge the distance to the ground, the girl must deem it survivable because she allows herself to fall the final four feet. It’s an awkward landing. She falls to the left as her ankle twists but she ignores it, scrambling to her feet. Sparing the wall – and whoever she left behind it – one more thoughtful look, the girl limps further into the garden and into the darkness beneath the sheltering trees.

There is no one else within the Grove. If there had been, however, they would be hard pressed to identify the girl. She is dressed plainly, if neatly, in a much-repaired tunic and breeches, her sensible boots scuffed at the toes. Earlier, she had been much cleaner and her riotous brown curls had not been quite such a tangle but the escape had involved a hedge or two and now she is the proud, unaware bearer of several twigs and leaves and one unconcerned caterpillar. Despite the limp, the girl walks with the purposeful stride of someone much older and her face is solemn, even wan; nevertheless, her child-soft cheeks betray her as no older than twelve. A proud chin juts stubbornly forward. The lips above it are set flat and stern. Her eyes—a pretty green until light hits and then the brilliant green is flecked with yellow, as though they had caught the exact moment the forest turns to autumn—are sharp and intent on her path.

Her destination is a fallen pillar deep within the Grove. It rests at the base of a large tree. Both tree and pillar have been crept over by green and purple moss, untouched for countless seasons, and the stone of the pillar has long been worn smooth from exposure to the elements. The girl sits herself up in a hollow in the pillar where a large chunk of stone is missing and she eases her foot out of her boot, turning it in a careful circle to test the sprain.

Alexandra of Haryse grimaces at the twinge of pain. She prods at the place where her ankle is swelling.

It doesn’t help.

Removing a small bag from a hidden hollow behind the pillar, Lexa takes out her backup shirt and tears a strip from it, binding it carefully about her foot. She tests the makeshift bandage and nods approvingly at her handiwork; a little cumbersome, perhaps, but the boot fits over it still and the throbbing is minimal and easily ignored.

After taking a moment, checking the contents of the bag haven’t been touched since last she came here, Lexa stands. She makes her way to a path; this one had been a true path once upon a time and is lined with pretty river-smoothed stones that twists and turns through the trees. It brings her to a low and rusted gate in the wall.

She stops there.

Beyond this gate, the path falls away down a steep set of stairs and into the city proper. The noise of celebration is a dull roar even here and Lexa sighs. It has been a good day with regards to her awareness, which sits as little more than a faint pressure behind her eyes, but being amongst so much noise could change that.

Instead of risking that, she makes her way to a tall building here on the outskirts. Built at the top of this hill, it is constructed entirely of brick rather than the more common wood and plaster here and it overlooks most of the district. Lexa is pretty sure that it belongs to a guild; she has seen guards wandering within and sometimes outside of it and chasing away beggars. But it is empty now, with everyone having gone to the tournament, and no one questions her or appears to see her when she climbs the stairs at the rear of the building up to the roof. Mindful of her twisted ankle, Lexa is careful as she picks her way across the roof. She settles behind a tall chimney to claim what little shade there is.

The tiles are hot and burn through her clothes; there isn’t a single cloud in the sky to ease the pressing heat. Pulling out a notebook and stick of charcoal from her bag, she picks up where she had left off the day before.

Lexa looks out over the city.

From her place here at the furthest edge of Silverbrush, she can see far out across the sprawling city to the belching chimneys in the Wishbone and across the river to the sluice where the city wall meets the river beyond Northbridge, the river churning a sickly grey as it froths and spills away through the immense grates. She can see all the way to the city walls by Highfields from here—and beyond them, out the main gates and into the cleared fields where she can just make out the brightly coloured stalls and tents of the festival.

In the centre of it all, a conspicuous cleared space and a pavilion.

Lexa doesn’t need to see it to know whose flag is raised above it but a familiar discomfort grips her. She reacts instinctively; grabbing onto the rough brick of the chimney next to her just in time, her vision blurs and darts, quick as a bird, over the rooftops to swoop down low over the festival. She sees: sees ribbons tied in hair, and the glint of coins passed between hands, the drip of honey from combs crushed in eager child hands and smeared across their faces, curious bees bumbling over jars and gentle hands. She hears laughter and song and the strain of a familiar song starting up on a fiddle and the barking of a pack of dogs; smells the meats and breads and sweetness of plucked berries; and finally, right when she feels herself start to sweat that clammy sweat, her body feeling heavy and unwell, she sees the flags that have been raised over the pavilion. The heavy gleam of blue and silver of the King; the grey and green of Haryse, each stitch of it carefully laid by Mara.

Lexa falls back into her own body.

When she is able to, she crawls to the edge of the roof and pukes down into the empty alley below. The faint pressure behind her eyes is a pounding headache now and she tries to ease it with a few sips from her canteen but ends up doing as she always does: ignoring it.

Lexa slips a sweet under her tongue and focuses on the clean taste spilling into her mouth.

‘I am Lexa,’ she says quietly and she balances the book on her knees, grounds herself between the weight of the book and the sturdy heat of the tiled roof. The lines of charcoal tremble on the page. ‘I am Lexa of Haryse. I am fine. I am here.’

//

Lexa stirs around midday. The day is hot and the honeyed candy has made her thirsty, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth.

Packing away her maps neatly, she climbs down from the roof and makes her way back toward Grove.

Her maps have improved considerably over the season as she practiced, she thinks. Even more so since she’s returned to Corus. Temple and Hilltop, the first Districts she attempted to map, are the least detailed but even such simple maps had still taken her the better part of two days each to put down on paper.

By all measure, they are more drawings than maps as they lack street names and correct dimensions.  _Octavia would love them,_ Lexa thinks and a pang of guilt shoots through her at the thought of her friend; she hopes the Danshame page doesn’t think too poorly of her for not writing during the summer.  _I had a good reason_ , she thinks, but Octavia’s idea of ‘a good reason’ and Lexa’s own only very rarely overlap.  _Maybe I can give them these. As a gift._

Wishbone, Highbrush, and Patten districts each improved on her skills and Upmarket had taught her that the best place for her ‘map-making’ was the rooftops, after narrowly escaping a cascade of bath water and a cursing out from a paranoid housekeeper who had thought her some kind of urchin, apparently. Flash and Silverbrush – now complete – are the best of the lot.

All she has left is the Lower City.

Lexa looks out across the city; the rooftops of the Lower City are visible past the distinctive emptiness where the Main Way runs below. Examining the maze of rooftops and chimneys and walkways, Lexa understands why Gus had laughed when she had spoken her intent to map the city.

Lexa climbs down to the street and returns the bag to its place hidden in the Grove.

Making her way back to the townhouse, Lexa lingers in the garden between the Haryse town estate and the Disat estate until she’s sure that the foyer is empty.

Compared to the other estates in Silverbrush, the Haryse townhouse is on the smaller side. Inside, however, there is no missing the grandeur of the gleaming black marble floors or the handsome blue glass windows that send bright light in swathes of blue across the walls opposite. There is no one there—many of the servants being given the day off to take part in the festival—and Lexa slips into the large study and library that takes up a good quarter of the ground floor. She heads for the cabinet by the desk to search for more paper for the notebook.

‘You may take as much as you like, provided you go buy the replacement.’

Lexa jumps.

Behind her sitting at a desk piled high with accounting books is a woman. Short and stout and attractive in a handsome sort of way, Mireia is watching Lexa with a look of such keen interest that it betrays the fearsome intelligence she typically keeps banked.

Lexa feels her cheeks burn hot. She should have noticed the woman but perhaps she has been relying too much on the awareness that claws at her at every moment, needling at her when there is so much as a _hint_ of another person around her. The thought makes her scowl—she wants nothing to do with that, that  _power_ —and Mireia lifts dark brows at her.

‘Have I said something, Alexandra?’ she asks in that measured way of hers that Lexa admires so much. No matter whether it is word or action, she is matter-of-fact and thoughtful, nearly graceful in her directness. Writing without flourish, conversation without embellishment; it is the same control and command that Lexa admires in sword-fighting.

Forcing her scowl away, Lexa stands. ‘Yes.’

‘What is it?’

‘I can take the paper?’

Mireia smiles. ‘Yes, I did say that. Of course you may—this is your house. I will need more of it as we seem to be running low.’

‘I’ve been using it.’

Mireia’s smile grows. She points without standing; Lexa follows the line of her finger to a familiar money pouch sitting on the table, leather with a fine silver trim. ‘Take some money from my purse—two silver ought to be enough. Have Farlie deliver to the house tomorrow whatever you don’t wish to take with you. Does that sound reasonable?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very good.’ Mireia tilts her head to the side. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

Lexa considers the question seriously. ‘Is Gus here?’

‘He isn’t. I believe he has gone to the tournament. Namak will know when he left.’

‘Ah. Thank you’

‘Of course.’ Mireia waits until Lexa has taken the coins and put them in her own pouch before she speaks again. ‘Alexandra?’

Lexa turns. Mireia has shifted; interest and concern runs in tense lines through the woman’s body, making her lean forward, making her grip tighten ever so slightly on the pen she holds.

‘I have no wish to intrude upon your business,’

‘Then do not.’

The words come out curter than Lexa had intended them to, but she doesn’t attempt to recall them or apologise.

It works, at any rate. Mireia sits back in her seat. She masks her hurt well, and Lexa barely notices it before the woman returns her attention to her books. ‘Very well. If you require directions to the supplier, Namak can assist you. Good day.’

‘Good day,’ Lexa says quietly. Her head aches and a new unpleasant weight of shame sits in her belly. Ignoring it, she goes searching for the housekeeper.

Namak is a small man with dark bronze skin and a lean frame. He walks with a pronounced limp and a cane, making no effort to disguise the tool. Rather, he has had the head of the cane carved into the head of a sprinting horse, the mane cascading out behind it, and it has been painted brightly—if not realistically—in a myriad of colours. It would be incredibly noticeable, but Namak decorates himself in the Rajmuat fashion—that is, colourfully—and it is just one piece of many that he bears that fascinates and draws the eye. Lexa isn’t sure of his age, since there is no sign of grey in his hair, but his face is heavily lined and expressive. Namak’s resemblance to the nasty Master Tern extends as far as the accent they share and no further.

He also doesn’t believe in stopping what he is doing to make an unnerving amount of direct eye contact, which Lexa finds refreshing.

Standing in the kitchen and making note of everything within the pantry, he holds a board in his hand with papers pinned to it. ‘Namak sees you,’ he greets when Lexa steps into the kitchen. ‘What can I do, lady?’

‘Mireia said you would know someone called Farlie. A paper supplier?’

Namak switches pages immediately, pencil barely lifting from the page. In moments, he has a map drawn out for her in regimented lines, which he tears off his page in a neat block. He presents it with a hint of a flourish.

‘Thank you, Namak.’

‘Is she well?’ he asks. ‘She works so hard, she is so very clever.’

Well used to Namak’s effusive praise of Mireia, Lexa just nods. She puts the directions away into her pocket. ‘She’s in the study.’

‘Ah, you see? Still working. Even on a festival day!’

‘So are you.’

Namak stops writing for the first time since she had entered. He blinks, and then grins, so forcefully the skin about his eyes crinkles up until all that can be seen of his eyes are two brown twinkles. ‘That is very true, lady. I have been inspired—she is an inspiration!’

Lexa blinks. ‘Alright,’ she nods. ‘Goodbye.’

//

The suppliers fawn and fall over themselves when Lexa introduces herself. It’s a new and entirely unpleasant experience. The Haryse folk know that there is no Lady without her people; after all, what point is a castle that overlooks nothing? What good are leagues of farmland if she cannot till it? And her mother’s people care even less for nobility, seeing no reason for them at all, so being treated in this manner after so long without it feels rather like being drenched in sweet-oil, heavy and restrictive. 

It makes her teeth ache.

Lexa makes the order for the paper but takes none for herself, wanting nothing more than to be free of that cloying atmosphere. She starts off back to the townhouse but before she can hit the main street, the clamour of the crowd—somehow  _more_  people are working their way through the city to the tournament—makes her turn away, away from the Main Way and instead taking Tattercloth, a street shy of the main road. The crowd is thinner here but not absent and Lexa presses close to the buildings to avoid being touched.

She is walking fast, keeping an eye on her surroundings to make sure no one will accidentally run into her, when a flash of white-blonde hair catches her attention, and the flutter of blue cloth.

Surprise and hope strikes thought clean out of Lexa’s mind.

‘Clarke?’

The person doesn’t stop or slow so Lexa breaks into a jog; she ducks under a dripping overhang and skirts around a trundling wagon with a loose, squeaking wheel. It fills two-thirds of this narrow street and Lexa apologises breathlessly as she nearly knocks into the man pulling the wagon. Distantly, she hears him swearing but he’s already out of her mind—ahead of her, Lexa watches as the blue-cloaked figure tucks their hair under a brown cap. She fixes the clothing in her mind, determined not to lose the other girl.

‘ _Clarke_?’

The cloaked blonde leads her through increasingly narrowed streets, darkening with mud and the shadows from the walkways and awnings above.

So focused on her pursuit is she that Lexa doesn’t realise she has found her way deep into the Lower City until she comes to a crossroads and there is no sign of either the blonde-haired figure…or anything else that Lexa recognises.

The buildings sit squat and low to the ground here. Several inches of what Lexa hopes is mud stains the base of the buildings and sits thick in the gutters where the cobbled road falls away into wooden planks and mostly dirt. With neither name nor number or even signs, the facades all blur together in seemingly identical wood-and-plaster builds until she cannot tell them apart. Lexa feels her breath coming fast and backs up until her spine is pressed to a solid wall. The air here tastes heavy, stinking of wet dog and mould, and she doesn’t want to be sucking it in, panicked, so she forces herself to look about again for anything that would help.

The streets are mostly empty, that much is true. The street to her left tilts up toward a hill where she can make out passing figures and the clop of hooves, more like goats than horse. But what she hadn’t heard before, struck deaf by panic, is the low hum of chatter and business. The clink of glasses and the dull creak of boots on rickety steps, conversations muffled by doors. Lexa finds the reminder of humanity comforting and the pounding pressure behind her ears begins to ease. Firelight flickers in the slatted windows of the building across from her; Lexa trots over to get a better look, stands up on a bucket to peer inside. She tries to move the shutters but they’re glued in place or otherwise thick with grime to the point where they refuse to shift, and so Lexa has to angle herself to see through the slats. The interior looks to be a small inn: a cheerful fire burns against the back wall, casting a smoky amber light over what looks like five or six round tables. There’s an array of half a dozen heads—two bald, one balding, one half-shaved in the Caynn fashion and blue tattoos swirling over the revealed scalp, one with thick curling black hair and— _there_. Long blonde hair and a brown cap!

Eagerness building again in her chest, Lexa drops down from the bucket. Mud splashes up around her boots but she pays it no mind, kicks a slop of it off her toe. She has no more than opened the door when a woman swoops down on her, prickly broom in both hands.

‘Out! No children allowed!’

‘But – ’

‘ _Out_!’

The woman brandishes the broom at her, forcing Lexa to duck. Lexa scrambles out of reach. If she had thought for a moment that the woman had eased her blow, she doesn’t think that anymore because the broom hits the frame of the door with an almighty  _whack!_  that rattles the shutters on either side.

‘But I – ’

‘An’ if yer one o’ hers, you can tell that black-eyed chaos girl that I paid already!’ she snarls at Lexa and slams the door closed in her face with such force the shutters rattle again. It has to be luck alone that stops the things from falling out of their frames.

‘Black-eyed chaos girl?’ Lexa repeats quietly, frowning, before she shakes it out of her head. Since the woman won’t let her in, she’ll have to find another way.

Lexa trots down the steps and examines the building—two storeys, a staircase built in the alley around the corner that leads onto the second floor, small dim windows all along the top floor that makes her think it’s likely to be an inn. She slips around to the alleyway and peers up at the dark door, unlit by lantern or candle. Before she can put a foot on the steps, a hand grasps her above the elbow and wrenches her around.

A man – not too much taller than her but heavyset and strong and his waxen face patched with an oiled black beard, his breath spiced heavily with the distinctive hotblood wine – holds her firmly, his hand gripping her so tightly that she can feel the blood in her arm pulsing around it and her bones being squeezed together. Worse than that, so much worse, is the way the pain flares behind her eyes and she feels— _her-his head fuzzy and warm and all the rest of her hot and bright, quicker and stronger and cleverer than anyone else, no one else caught this bright little bird just him, struggling in her-his grip, take her back into the dark_ —and she freezes in his grip, staring up into watery green eyes ringed with red, feeling the horrible wave of intent crash against her and over her and through her.

She must make a sound because the man clamps his meaty hand over her mouth at the same time the wooden door crashes open.

‘I said leav-‘ Lexa hears the woman saying as she is pulled behind the staircase and into the alleyway.

‘Pretty little bird,’ he croons softly in her ear, his spiced breath puffing against her cheek.

Lexa’s mind spins, pain thundering in her head as she tries to separate what is her—mostly fear and repulsion—from what is him. His hand is slick with sweat and when she twists her head, his hand drops just enough for her to clamp her teeth down on his finger. Pain— _his_  pain—feels like a bright flash of lightning and in the wake of it, clarity returns to her.

Lexa kicks back into his shin; it makes the man yelp but doesn’t release her. She keeps kicking at him and pulling at his grip on her arm as he drags her deeper into the alley. When he slips on a patch of mud, he growls his frustration and pulls her up and off her feet and closer to him. Lexa starts to panic as everything starts to swarm in on her again. She reaches for her dagger only to realise with a heart-stopping lurch that she isn’t wearing it—hasn’t been since they arrived in the city.

‘Stop stop, wait,’ she gasps, and to her surprise, he does.

The man drops her and Lexa backs up against the wall, crouches down to fumble in the mud for any kind of weapon. She grips a solid rock in her hand and wraps her fingers around it firmly, never taking her eyes from his—watery green wide with a slow kind of surprise.

 _Did I do that?_  she has time to think before she sees a blonde head behind her attacker’s – and the blade they are holding to the man’s back.

‘Wha-’

‘I don’t think ye need to speak,’ they say, tone very, very cold. The other man yelps as the blade flashes in the dark; Lexa flinches as red sprays from a neat mark cut into his cheek. ‘Go. Afore I cut ye balls off an’ feed ‘em to ye.’

The man clutches at his face. Lexa thinks she will remember this forever—the dark, the cold mud around her knees and fingers, red dripping between his fingers—and like the click of a lock she knows she will never again be without her dagger. He moans, a gurgling sob, and hurries away deeper into the alley. Lexa’s rescuer –  _definitely not Clarke_  – kneels very slowly. They hold their hands wide at their sides and carefully, slowly, sheathe their dagger.

‘Are ye alright?’ they ask.

Lexa swallows. She can’t answer—her heart is still thundering in her chest and the awareness has flared out around her so all she can do is feel _everything_ except for herself. There is cluster of small creatures beneath the road –  _rats,_ her mind supplies – and a curiosity that scrubs like a scouring brush from the direction of the inn. And there is her rescuer, who feels solid and still like a statue of ice. They bristle icily with cold fury; Lexa can tell it isn’t directed at her but instead in the direction of the disappearing man. The thought of him makes her heart rate pick up again and now she can feel the throb of her pulse around the rock still clasped tightly in her hand.

She swallows hard again.

The stranger clicks their tongue. Concern like a slow sweeping mist rolls from them. That  _is_  directed at Lexa.

‘Ye’ve had a scare,’ they say quietly. Sweet ice-blue eyes watch her carefully. ‘I nick a good place – safe and warm. Do ye want t’ go wid me? We can find yer way back to yer place, if yer lost.’

It sounds like foolishness after she was so recently nearly murdered – Lexa’s mind flinches away from any other explanations – but she trusts them and only in part because they rescued her. Despite the fact it nearly got her killed, despite the fact that it leaves a terrible ache in her head, she trusts the feelings she gets from her awareness, and she feels nothing sinister about them.

‘I’m Ebbe,’ they say when Lexa nods slowly and stands. ‘Eberhard.’

‘Lexa.’

‘Lexa,’ they nod and bow a silly kind of bow with too many flourishes, reminding her somewhat of Benny. ‘Well, Lexa, ye want me t’ take ye some place safer? It’s only a leg that way.’ Ebbe points up the street and, when she nods, they give her a smile that turns ice-blue eyes warm. They unbuckle the blue cloak they wear to drape it around her shoulders, careful not to touch her. The cloak is pleasantly warm and smells faintly of soap and sweat, but not in a bad way.

//

The place Ebbe spoke of turns out to be a tavern only a short walk away that sits on a wide street, clean and set up with a number of small stalls selling flowers and pastries and ribbons for the festival. Folk walk freely about here and now that she sees this part of the Lower City, Lexa feels foolish that she hadn’t realised how dark and dreary the streets had been where she had followed Ebbe. And unlike the last one, this tavern looks and smells sharply of fresh green paint.

A hanging sign over the door reads  _The Roaming Rook_.

 _The Rook_ stands three storeys tall. A balcony hugs the second floor and as they approach, Lexa can see a stable around the back of the building. The wide door sits open to the tavern and Ebbe leads the way in, setting Lexa up at an out-of-the-way table before pushing away through the crowd to get her something to eat and drink ‘to settle yer stomach’.

The interior is large and well-lit; nearly two dozen tables fill the lower floor and Lexa can see that the floor above, half cut out so those on the balconies can look down into the space, holds a half dozen more. A musician is tuning their instrument in the corner and a few servers dart through the crowd in identical dark shirts. It’s busier than she was expecting though many of the patrons don’t stay for too long, talking quietly to someone at a table toward the rear before they step out again with a few pastries and a drink.

‘Now, Lexa – how old are ye?’ Ebbe asks when they return, juggling a plate and two tankards. ‘Ah’ve got barley water an’ I’ve got sweet ale.’

‘Eleven.’

‘ _Eleven_?’ Ebbe looks sick for a moment, but it passes. ‘Barley water it is.’ They sniff each of the tankards before handing her one. Lexa sniffs it as well, eyeing Ebbe warily.

Ebbe nods when they see her do it, seeming to approve of her caution. They settle into a seat next to her and watches the crowd.

It takes a little time before Lexa starts to feel like herself again. The hum of chatter is soothing and no one is watching her, no eyes pressing against her awareness to make it flare. She is surprised by that, at first, before she realises that in her muck-covered day clothes she doesn’t look like a lady at all—just another of the people here. And filthier by far, which draws a few concerned looks but nothing more.

When she feels more settled, she remembers something.

‘Thank you,’ she says abruptly. ‘I should’ve said that before.’

Ebbe waves a hand, dismissing her apology with a smile that puts her immediately at ease. ‘No need.’

‘There is – ’

‘There  _isn’t_ ,’ they tell her. ‘Anyone with half a heart woulda done th’ same. Now drink yer water.’

Lexa sips obediently. ‘I have coin, I can pay you back for this.’ She huffs when Ebbe scoffs and waves that away as well. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Aye.’

‘What were you doing in that place?’

‘Talkin’. What were  _you_  doin’ there?’

Lexa’s face flushes. ‘Following you.’ When Ebbe stirs, their eyes narrowing to splinters of ice, she hurries to explain. ‘I thought you were someone else. She has your hair and I haven’t seen her for a long time, so I followed you. But then I lost you so I tried to go into that inn but the mistress,’ Lexa huffs, ‘she threw me out and waved a  _broom_ in my  _face_ – ’

‘Ain’t a place for kids.’

‘You’re not much older than me.’

‘Still older’n you, little mouse. Trust me – only lousy sorts, an’ them that don’t know any better go to that  _bhor_ -hole.’ Ebbe squints at Lexa like they’re sizing her up before saying, slowly, ‘Yer  _likely_  of th’ latter.’

‘How can you be sure?’

Ebbe pretends to quake with fright at her scowl but can’t hold it for long before they start to laugh.

‘Ebbe, what are ye doin’ back already? Thought collections woulda kept ye out ‘til dark–’ The familiar voice stops, fills with shock as he says, ‘ _Lexa_?’

Lexa starts, as surprised to see Nate as he seems to see her.

‘What are you  _doing_  here?’ he hisses. Coming round the table as though to sit with her, he stops, the glint of steel pressing his shirt to his ribcage. Ebbe had barely seemed to move but there they stand, between Nate and Lexa. ‘Whoa there, Ebbe,’ Nate soothes, his voice low. His posture is surprisingly relaxed for someone with a knife pressed up into their gut. ‘It’s fine—I know the lass. Lexa?’

Ebbe turns slightly; Lexa nods. They slip the blade back into some hidden sheathe, quick as a wink.

‘Nate. Good to see you,’ Ebbe says, without so much as a mention of the knife, let alone an apology.’

‘Same here. Bit surprised t’ see y’all together, though. Didn’t know ye knew her.’ Nate catches the look Ebbe sends to Lexa and he frowns. ‘What is it?’ He leans down when Ebbe waves him close; when Nate’s face goes ashen and then dark with anger, Lexa realises what Ebbe is telling him. ‘If I run into him, I’ll cut him navel to nu – uh. Neck,’ he growls.

Ebbe nods.

‘I’m fine,’ Lexa tells Nate. She twists her fingers into knots below the table where neither can see. ‘He didn’t kill me, so I don’t think you can kill him without going to the cages.’

Nate’s eyes glint. ‘Maybe not.’ The air between them seems suddenly heavy for a moment before Nate sucks in a deep breath and then smiles again. ‘As it is, lass, mayhap a little less o’ the whole  _killin’_  folk talk while we’re in public.’

Lexa nods solemnly. ‘Later, then,’ she says, making them both laugh.

Silence sits heavily over their table for a short time; Nate sits with them and doesn’t seem to know what to say to her, which Lexa finds strange because he had always been talkative and clever when she met him at the palace. Ebbe goes for more food, taking the coins Nate hands them, and finally they begin to talk. The conversation turns to common things, like the festival and the weather. With a drink in him, Nate seems to relax and he introduces Lexa to a few more of his friends—a set of Bazhir twins, the impressively muscled Gamal and his sister Khadiga, equally muscled and standing a much-argued half-inch taller; Roshan, the musician Lexa had spied earlier in the tavern, who speaks with such a golden, sweet voice that Lexa feels herself flush hot under their dark eyes; Suman, a K’mir trader much older than the rest but well greeted on account of her many stories—all of which are apparently too gory to tell with such little ears present, and she tweaks Lexa’s ear with a broad grin when Lexa grumbles; and Vieno, a woman who makes both Ebbe and Nate swoon, her light eyes and temper like ‘a storm’ according to Nate. ‘She’ll work ye over right quick,’ Ebbe adds to Nate’s description, and both of them sigh adoringly when she leaves them.

Still more folk pass by their table over the next hour, buying and trading drinks and snippets of conversation. Lexa is far from stupid and it becomes rapidly apparent that not everything discussed is entirely legal but, tucked between Nate and Ebbe, she feels safe and warm and comfortable and no one asks for anything more than her name.

Ebbe slips out when the sky darkens but only after extracting Nate’s promise to walk Lexa home safe. The tavern starts to pick up not long after they leave with those who had gone to the tournament returning to drink, and to celebrate and mourn coin won and lost.

Suman takes Ebbe’s place and after learning that Lexa doesn’t know how to play Seven Card Draw, promptly ignores her.

The room starts to feel full and very hot as it fills further and Lexa realises that she still wears Ebbe’s cloak. She taps Nate’s shoulder to tell him.

‘They’re here plenty,’ Nate tells her, his face a little flushed and his voice a touch too loud. ‘Don’t ye worry – I’ll get it back to ‘em for ye.’ Lexa accepts that and folds the cloak in her lap, hugging it to her belly as she makes herself mostly invisible, content to listen.

Turning away from a discussion on which of the butchers on Bloody Row is the least likely to give an underweight cut, Lexa overhears Nate speaking to a dark-cloaked man who had, at some point in the night, appeared in the seat next to him. His raised hood hides his features more thoroughly than shadows ought to and the only feature that sets him apart from anyone else is the white rope of a scar as thick as Lexa’s thumb that runs across the back of his hand, which is tanned and bristles with dark hair.

‘ – haven’t found anyone who can help. But there’s always Bergin, o’course,’ Nate is saying and he laughs, slops his drink over his hand with his wide gesture.

‘Can’t trust Bergin as far as I can throw ‘im. After the last one, I’m thinkin’ we can’t let ‘em anywhere near th’  _Rook_. Oughta be shy o’ any strangers, that’s what I reckon.’ He speaks in hoarse strains that send a shiver down Lexa’s spine.

‘Alrigh’, alrigh’, Loughlin, no harm. Yer right – we gotta be careful,’ Nate agrees easily.

The man—Loughlin—nods. Suddenly, his head shifts ever so slightly and Lexa starts, knowing without seeing that his eyes are now fixed on her.

‘Need somethin’, lass?’ he asks, voice crackling with danger like a snake through dry fall leaves.

Lexa shakes her head mutely.

‘Kid!’ Nate says cheerily, as though he’d forgotten she was there. ‘Why don’t ye get me anuther drink?’ Nate hands over a few coppers happily. ‘Maren dredge ale for me.’ He barely twitches when Loughlin flicks a heavy silver Lexa’s way.

‘For me as well,’ the man says.

Lexa feels his eyes on her until she squeezes into the crush of the crowd. It’s growing unpleasant—the space smells of meat and sweat and everyone calls too-loud from drink—but even this is better than sitting next to Loughlin. The barkeeper is a no nonsense woman who looks like she’s bitten into a sour fruit when Lexa asks for the two ales; she’s miraculously cured of her reluctance when Lexa mentions who they’re for and even sends a kitchen boy to carry the large tankards to the table.

The barkeep holds off taking the coppers for a moment. ‘Got a place fer tonight?’ she grunts. When Lexa doesn’t answer immediately, she nods back over her shoulder to the kitchen. ‘Ye can camp by the fire, if ye need a place. Got a few others bunkin’ there tonight but it oughta be cosy.’

‘Others?’

‘Other kids,’ a soft voice says at Lexa’s side.

Lexa flinches away, hand falling to her side for the second time that night and cursing herself again for the empty space on her belt.

The girl doesn’t miss the gesture, her dark eyes flicking to Lexa’s fallen hand; she also doesn’t mock her for the reaction. Lexa thinks for a moment that she might be – her nearly black eyes are bright with mischief and a hidden laugh curls up the corners of her lips – but since her eyes brighten as they continue to speak and the edge of laughter never drops away, Lexa suspects that it isn’t directed at her but must be how the girl  _is_.

She’s older than Lexa but not by much – eighteen years, maybe twenty at the most – and lithe. Compact, with wiry muscles, and with an odd way of standing on the balls of her feet like she’s about to start dancing or fighting, or take flight. Her skin is golden-brown and Lexa’s eyes dip to where delicate black feathered tattoos peek out from the open collar of her shirt.

‘Other kids?’ Lexa says, regaining her composure.

‘Yes,’ she says, cocking her head curiously to the side. ‘You didn’t think you were th’  _only_  houseless lass in Corus, did you?’

Behind them, the barkeep draws the sign of the Mother into the countertop with a drop of spilled wine. ‘Too many of ‘em,’ she sighs.

The girl nods. ‘Very true.’ Her dark eyes return to Lexa, appraising. ‘Well? Normal rules if you stay – no stealing from the others, or the house. No fighting inside and if you take it outside, you can’t come back in. Well?’

‘Thank you for the offer,’ Lexa says, ‘but I do have a home and a family.’

The barkeep sets a tankard down on the counter sharply; the sound makes Lexa jump. The woman’s demeanour has turned steely and she frowns forbiddingly down at her. ‘And yer here, lettin’ ‘em worry about ye? For  _shame_ , lass!’

Lexa’s cheeks burn. She wonders if Gustus is home yet and, if he is, if he’s concerned about her.

She suspects he is.

‘Ye get home safe now, hear me?’ the barkeep tells her, frowning deeply to impress the instruction on Lexa before she stomps down the room to serve more drinks.

‘Do you like them?’

Lexa starts, turns to the girl who hasn’t left nor let up her examination of Lexa. ‘Pardon?’

‘Your family,’ she says with a laugh. ‘Do you like them?' She cocks her head to the other side, gives a strange shrug more like her shoulder blades lifting than her shoulders. 'Only, I get the feeling you’d suit us here very well.’

‘I’m certain,’ Lexa tells her.

‘A pity.’

Feeling an uncommon surge of bravery – or perhaps the girl’s amusement is infectious – Lexa says, ‘If they die, I’ll come back to you, shall I?’

The girl grins, perfect white teeth flashing. ‘You do that.’ She holds out her hand – surprising fine, delicately boned, but her grip is very strong. ‘Ask for Reyes.’

Lexa repeats her name, nodding. ‘I’m Lexa.’ She hesitates, and Reyes winks to her.

‘Don’t worry. No need to tell me – I like a mystery.’ She holds onto Lexa’s hand for a little longer before letting it drop. ‘Visit any time, even if they aren’t dead,’ she says and slips past Lexa into the back of the room, disappearing into the crowd.

Lexa resigns herself to feeling confused about that entire conversation and this new world she has found herself in. When she returns to the table, Loughlin is gone.

‘Did ye use his silver?’ Nate asks her, taking the tankard.

Lexa shakes her head no and hands over the coin when Nate holds out his hand.

‘Time fer us to be leavin’,’ he says a little while later, seeing the lamp-lighters starting to walk the streets. He stands, staggering a little, waving to the crowded table.

‘Aw, already?’

‘Gotta get the little lass home.’ Nate claps Lexa on the shoulder. There’s a crush of disappointed booing and laughter before they’re farewelled with calls all down the table and several handshakes.

‘Come back any time!’

‘Nice to meet ya!’

‘Later, Nate. Ah’ll teach ye Seven Cards next time, lass,’ Suman promises Lexa, who nods. She means to answer the woman but she’s distracted by the flash of silver that drops from Nate’s palm when he passes it slyly over an abandoned tankard.

She follows him out of the tavern, turning over the strange events of the night in her mind. Nate doesn’t seem to notice, walking with a rolling stride and a loose, relaxed set to his shoulders. Lexa finds herself mimicking his gait. They walk for a short time without speaking and Lexa thinks about everything that has happened tonight, exhaustion pulling at her bones. One question in particular seems pressing.

‘Nate?’

He tilts his head sloppily toward her. ‘Aye?’

‘Why are you pretending to be drunk?’

‘…How long did ye know?’

She shrugs. ‘A while.’

Nate nods. Scratches at the side of his nose. ‘Clever girl,’ he says like he’s reminding himself of the fact. ‘Well. Let’s just say that I trust ‘most everyone who comes by  _The Rook_.’ He turns to look down at her and raises dark eyebrows, fixes her with a steady gaze. ‘There are some folk ye was drinkin’ with tonight I don’t want ye ever to run into again – ye understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alright then.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘How am I supposed to avoid them if I don’t know who they are?’

‘By not coming down here.’

She doesn’t like that answer much but his shoulders are tense and high around his ears, which she knows from Octavia’s badgering of Virgil that means he’s not pleased by the questions.

They walk on in silence for a time. Then, ‘How did your race go? Did you win?’

Nate’s expression sours for a half second before evening out. ‘Nah. Came second.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘S’fine,’ he shrugs. ‘Got a new job, though.’ Nate throws his thumb back over his shoulder the way they had come. ‘I work at  _The_   _Rook_ now _._ Lower City ain’t always a safe place, ‘specially for a lady,’ Lexa thinks about the man who had grabbed her and she nods. ‘But if ye do find yerself down here again,’ he says, eyeing her like he knows she hadn’t planned on staying away, ‘ye can always send for me there. Or come yerself, even if ah’m not there. They seemed to like ye well enough,’ he tells her with a faint note of surprise.

‘I’m likeable.’

Nate laughs. ‘That ye are, miss.’

As they walk to the Main Way and up toward Silverbrush, Lexa tells him about her week mapping Corus. Nate asks questions and gives suggestions about parts of the Lower City to definitely avoid – ‘where ye were tonight, where Ebbe found you, fer example,’ he warns with a lidded half-glare, not directed at Lexa – before he suggests he shows her around himself.

Lexa considers his offer, which is very nice of him because she is certain that he has better things to do than entertain a child. Still, she is a Haryse and isn’t one to let a good opportunity pass her by. ‘You  _do_ know it well…’

‘Been there fer years.’

‘And the people seem to like you,’

‘Addled, poor cads,’ he says with a sad sigh.

‘And if you’re willing to sit around while I draw,’

‘Sleepin’ on the job? That’s my kind of work.’

‘And you truly don’t mind if I come around?’

‘Yer welcome any time,’ he assures her, sounding resigned about it now.

‘I may take you up on your offer, Mister Nate,’ she tells him and when he makes her shake on it as solemnly as any truce made, Lexa laughs. The sound surprises her; she hasn’t wanted to laugh for some weeks now. Some small frozen piece of her, buried deep inside where she barely notices it, cracks at the sound and begins its long thaw.

‘This is where we part, Lady,’ he says, and Lexa realises with a start that they have reached the Haryse townhouse through a series of back roads and passages she hadn’t known existed, emptying them out by the back gate. ‘Don’t make me wait too long t’ see you.’

* * *

Lexa’s room is easily twice as large as the one she has – might have – up in the Palace. The bed is wide and the blanket is thick and heavy and dyed a deep emerald green. She clutches it tight in her hands, dozing fitfully. Moonlight shines across the room—the long windows on the eastern wall, the door that nudges open just wide enough for a man to enter, the burned down stumps of candles on her bedside, only one still lit.

She hasn’t been asleep long before there is movement at the foot of her bed. Lexa pulls the dagger from under her pillow and blinks the sleep out of her eyes, using the light of her candle to find the intruder’s face.

‘ _Gus_ ,’ she groans. ‘Why are you in my room?’

‘With you sneakin’ out before dawn, I reckon I gotta be sneaky to catch you.’ He sits on the chair by her bed. The wood creaks under his weight. ‘I want ye to read somethin’.’

‘Can’t it wait for morning?’

‘Are ye tired?’ he asks with false concern. ‘Mayhap ye shouldn’t stay  _out_  until  _dark_  either.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Namak said ye came back near to midnight reeking of the Lower City.’

‘That’s impossible – he can’t smell a  _District_  on me.’

The dark and the flickering light of the candle emphasises the way Gus glowers at her. ‘Were you alone down there?’

‘No.’

‘But ye were in the Lower City.’

Lexa scowls. ‘I hate it when you trick me.’

‘I hate it when ye take yerself off into danger,’ he says, and there’s a true undercurrent of unease in his tone that she suspects has more to do with the events of the summer camp – better left forgotten – than tonight’s adventure into the Lower City.

She decides to keep the man and his attack from him, not needing to know what Gus would do to him.

‘Is there – ‘ she stops, yawns so wide her jaw clicks. ‘Is there a reason you’re in my room? Or just to keep me from sneaking out?’

‘Both,’ Gus grunts. He tosses her a letter, which lands heavy on her belly – it smells faintly of pine and she knows from the weight of it that the good page stock comes from her father’s study. Lexa freezes, eyes the letter like it’s a venomous creature. ‘Read it.’

‘I’d rather not,’ she says, and hates the way her voice sounds: breathless, uncertain.

‘Lexa.’ The wood of his chair creaks again as Gus leans forward. He is careful to move slowly, and his eyes are suspiciously glossy when she doesn’t flinch away from the hand he puts over hers. ‘Would I give ye somethin’ that would hurt ye?’

‘…No,’ she whispers.

‘No. Read th’ letter.’

Sitting up in her bed, Lexa opens the package with shaking fingers. Gus touches the burning candle to the wicks of a few others so she has enough light to read by and she shuffles to the edge of the bed, shivering not from cold – not with the summer heat still thick about the room, and her blanket kicked to the foot of her bed now that she’s free of the chill touch of a nightmare – but from the instant recognition of her name on the page.

It is writ in her fathers hand.

‘I don’t – I don’t know if I can read this,’ Lexa confesses to Gus, very quietly. Even as she says it, she lifts the page to see the short letter he has penned. It’s short – painfully so – and his words are so forceful they nearly cut through the page.

She reads through it twice more and then nods. ‘He’s letting me return,’ she tells Gus, though he almost certainly already knew that.

Gus nods. Clears his throat. ‘I thought you’d be happier.’

Lexa stares down at the paper. Shrugs. ‘I wasn’t going to let it stop me,’ she tells him. ‘I just hadn’t figured out how to do it without his permission yet. This helps.’

Gus’s face creases in a fond, resigned smile. ‘I reckon ye could have – but lets not put it to the test.’

‘Agreed.’

She looks over her father’s letter to Lord Padraig – simple, direct, clean with no hidden commands or instructions that she can tell – and folds it up neatly, sets it on her table to take to the Palace tomorrow before her father can change his mind. Her own letter she folds up small and slips into her pouch.

//

_Alexandra,_

_I have given my permission_   _for you to return to your training. Enclosed is a letter with the same information for Lord Padraig – see to it that he receives it.  
I will have much business with his Majesty, the King, and will be staying in the Haryse townhouse for the foreseeable future. I look forward to meeting with you soon._

_We have much to discuss._

_Your father,  
Titus._

**Author's Note:**

> unicyclehippo on tumblr as well - come talk about stuff w me or say hi


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